Holliday's
by Cantbelieveitsnene
Summary: Set in a Greenwich Village cafe, we learn story of five college students navigating their way through life through loss, friendship, betrayal, and love. Every person has an inner battle, but no one has to fight it alone. [AU]
1. oo1

Her nights became a constant cycle of pops, bright lights, and absolute darkness. She fooled herself into thinking it would get a little easier each time, as she'd taken a habit of mentally tracing out the constellations on the ceiling each night before drifting off to sleep.

_Orion, Taurus, Pisces, Gemini…_

And for a brief moment, the golden shapes burned bright behind her eyelids and replaced the faces that seemed to haunt her.

_Cancer, Pegasus, Aries, Aquarius…_

The shapes on the ceiling…they weren't in the right position. She knew that much. They were in the incorrect positions on the ceiling of the station itself. But she painted from memory, the image giving her comfort in familiarity. The project had taken nearly two months to accomplish due to her own perfectionism (it'd taken forever to find the perfect shade of jade for the background), and lack of quality painting materials. It was when her manager surprised her with a small set of professional paintbrushes on her birthday that she was able to finally finish her painting. The finished product that she lay admiring that sunny Monday morning wasn't completely perfect. There were a few bumps in the lines thanks to anxious cats and shaky fingers, and the gold paint didn't seem as striking as she'd wished. But it was hers, a creation completed with her own two hands.

Mercedes' eyes briefly glanced over at the easels facing the opposite wall. Blankets draped over the canvases veiled the images from her vision, and she inwardly kicked herself for being unable to remove them from the room. Each day, Mercedes would approach the easels, and then shy away as if invisible forces were keeping her at bay. This time around, she forced herself out of bed, and shifted her gaze to the analog clock sitting atop the crate at her bedside just as it struck six. The morning motions were automatic and monotonous, all the way down to Trixie playing in the leaky faucet water and the faulty toaster allowing the bread to get too crisp on one side, but not crisp enough on the other.

Aside from the loud thunder of the train speeding along the tracks, the morning commute remained silent, completely contradicting the packed subway itself. Mercedes supposed it was just the affect of having a crowd of people each trapped in their own heads. She briefly wondered if this phenomenon had a name: What exactly does one call a bunch of people packed together, yet still ignoring the existence of others?

You could almost always pick the odd one out, as they sat tensed up and warily eyeing those surrounding them. Typically, the skin of their hands stretched tight along their bony knuckles due to the obvious death grip on their belongings. And they tried their absolute damnedest to appear as small as possible. The mousy brunette sitting across from her eyed both the handsome, broad shouldered, suited up young black man in front of her, and the bored looking, spiky haired, gauged Asian girl to her right. Mercedes watched in mild amusement as the woman shrank into herself even more…as if she had every intention of disappearing altogether, or else run the risk of of being attacked by enemies only she could see. For a moment, the two women locked eyes. This pale, baggy eyed, middle-aged woman was absolutely terrified. Mercedes didn't find it nearly as funny as it originally seemed— at this point she found it almost pitiful. The woman clutched her Macy's bag and thirty pound purse closer to her chest, and Mercedes quirked an eyebrow before finally tearing her eyes away.

The quality of the walk to the art shop depended on her mood that morning. On this day in particular, everything seemed calmer than the typical Monday morning rush. At least, that's how it seemed to her as she allowed herself to get lost in "Lovers in the Parking Lot" for the third time in a row. Tucked away in a busy section of Greenwich Village—not far from Washington Square park and within walking distance from the University— "Holliday's" seemed to be a favorite among the artsy college crowd, thanks in part to their "Spoken Word Saturdays", art auctions, and low priced, quality coffee. Owned by local socialite Holly Holliday, most critics didn't expect the tiny cafe and art shop to survive a full year, let alone five. With its "blink-and-you-miss-it-pseudo-sixties-chic" (as Holly liked to call it) storefront in jet black with tinted glass windows, the tiny hang out spot seemed to be Greenwich Village's best kept secret for a time. Soon one customer turned into tens, and tens turned into hundreds. The popularity stemmed mostly from word of mouth.

The moment Mercedes pushed open the freshly polished front door, she was greeted with a tiny bell, the gentle guitar riffs of a John Mayer song she'd never heard before, and the sweet scent of warm chocolate.

"Noah?" She called out, allowing the door to shut behind her and removing her trench coat.

"Back here, dollface!" His voice boomed excitedly from the kitchen, "Just whipping up something for the early morning rush."

The light rumble in her own stomach reminded her that one slice of toast wasn't gonna cut it, and that she was in dire need of something much more substantial. Something like—

"Here, here, here! Try this," Noah Puckerman in all of his bulky, mohawked glory jogged out of the kitchen holding up half of a muffin lightly drizzled with a dark brown syrup. The tiny brunette eyed him curiously as she tied a bright red apron around her back, and fastened her name tag on her left breast pocket.

"What did you put in it? You know I can't afford to take any days off, so if you kill me with another one of your experiments-" Her sentence was cut off by the low grumbling of her stomach.

He grinned and waved the muffin in front of her nose, "Looks like someone missed breakfast. C'mon," he sing songed, "you know you want tooooo."

She squinted at him and pushed her curls back, securing them in a black elastic, "You're lucky I kinda tolerate you."

Puck wiggled his eyebrows and watched expectantly as she leaned forward and took a bite, licking the light drizzle from her lips. She could taste chocolate, walnuts, some cinnamon and nutmeg.

"Noah, did you put chili powder in this?"

The baker bit the corner of his mouth and shrugged, "Maybe. I might've. Just a little, though! Enough to give it some kick."

Mercedes chewed slowly as she contemplated her input, "Lighten up on the chili powder. Just a tiny bit. You know how some people are around here. Too spicy and they'll sue."

She and Puck exchanged snorts and he reached to gently wipe crumbs from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "So you're saying I should throw this out? I mean, this is just a sample, I didn't add chili to the entire batter. I kinda needed a second opinion, and yours is the one I trust."

"It'll be fine. Just make sure you let Quinn know-" at the mention of the name, she caught his grimace, "What?"

"What, what?"

"What was that?"

"What?"

Mercedes plucked the muffin from his hand and made her way to the main seating area. With one hand she took a bite of the muffin, and with her free hand she removed an upside down stool from a coffee table, "I saw that face, Puckerman."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

The brunette opened her mouth, then closed it again, waving her muffin in the air, "You know what? I don't even wanna know. All I know is that you two need to sort out your issues at some point. You've been here for a month now, it's time for you guys to clear the air. Especially if she's your superior."

Puck snorted and removed another chair from the table and mumbled to himself, "Bullshit."

With a little espresso fueled push, Mercedes was able to power through the early morning rush with a bright smile on her face and pep in her step. The students came in droves, either preparing for early afternoon classes or getting an extra boost from classes already knocked out of the way. As the morning rush trickled into the early afternoon flow, Mercedes took the chance to lean against the counter and sneak a few texts out to her roommate Kurt, reminding him to stop at the grocery store for almond milk on his way back to the apartment. Puck moved from table to table, wiping down the glossy wood free of crumbs and sticky drops of semi-dried coffee.

The tiny bell above the door rang and Mercedes swiftly dropped her phone into her apron pocket. Her eyes fell onto a lanky, freckled blond boy who had to be no older than thirteen. He was dressed in black slacks, and a white button down shirt, with a navy blue blazer and a black tie. It was the standard private school uniform, a suspicion confirmed when she caught a glimpse of the school seal sewn onto the left breast pocket. His eyes scanned the shop, curiously.

"Hello there," Mercedes greeted, brightly, "Can I help you?"

The boy turned to her and smiled back, revealing straight white teeth and deep dimples in his pale cheeks. He shoved his hands in his pockets and retrieved three crumpled one dollar bills, and two quarters.

"Um…can I have a small coffee with cream and two sugars, please?"

Mercedes raised her brows, mildly impressed, "Aren't you a little young to be drinking coffee?"

The young boy perched himself on a nearby stool and rested his folded hands on the counter. "Kids in Europe drink coffee all the time. Over there it makes me all shaky and stuff. But not like the ones here. I like the ones here the most. It doesn't make me all…" he demonstrated by wildly waving his hands about his face, resulting in a giggle from Mercedes. She secured a black plastic lid onto the cardboard cup, and passed it over the counter in exchange for the money. The boy took a small sip, smiled, and gave her a thumbs up.

"Thanks loads, um…" he squinted at the name tag on her apron, "Mercedes."

He pushed himself from the counter and hopped down from the stool when she saw it: The lump in the side of his pocket, and a bit of plastic poking out from the opening. Mercedes leaned over the counter, and noticed the glass door open and a handful of pastries missing from the display beside the counter. She swore under her breath and slammed her hand on the wood to get his attention.

"Hey! Kid! Get your ass back here!" Mercedes shouted, pushing the swinging door out of her way.

At the sound of her voice, the boy dropped his coffee and broke into a run out of the door and onto the street. Before she could follow him out, Puck was beside her, pushing the door out of the way and chasing him out onto the busy city sidewalk. Mercedes watched with crossed arms as the boy bolted across the street, narrowly dodging traffic, and disappearing behind the corner with Puck close behind. Mercedes ran back into the cafe, and grabbed a handful of her hair, wondering where the hell their manager was and why she always seemed to be absent when shit went down. Especially when it'd been her idea to place the display next to the counter when countless people warned her that it wasn't the best decision.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. One hour. She was one hour away from her shift ending, and this is the shit she had to deal with. Granted, it'd been the most interesting thing to happen all day. But she didn't feel like dealing with the bullshit she knew she'd have to deal with for not watching the display. At least that's how she knew Holly would frame it. Her thoughts were interrupted when the door swung open and Puck stormed in with the screaming, swearing boy hauled over his shoulder. He unceremoniously dropped the boy onto the floor and grabbed him by the collar.

"Listen to me you little shit," he growled through gritted teeth, "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I have economics class in two goddamn hours. The last thing I needed was some punk ass kid making me chase him out into the middle of the street."

The boy glared at Puck, then smirked, "Not my fault you can't keep up. You chubby fuck."

Mercedes decided that it was time to intervene when the vein in Puck's neck throbbed and his hands balled into fists. "Noah…" she raised her brows and he let go of the boy's collar, shoving him hard.

"Look, kid," Mercedes shook her head, "just return what you stole. We really don't wanna deal with this right now."

He poked his bottom lip out and shrugged, "Um…no. You now, I don't really feel like it."

Puck paced back and forth behind her, "I'm gonna kick him."

"Don't kick him."

"I wanna fucking kick him in his smug little face."

"He's a kid."

"I hate kids, I'll be doing him a favor," he stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets, "It'll build character."

Mercedes groaned in exhaustion, "And then you'll get fired."

"Just so you know," the blond boy stated, resting back on his hands, "my brother's gonna kick your ass and then my family's gonna sue you for assault."

Puck tossed his head back and laughed, "Fuck your family. I'm broke. What are you gonna take? My pocket lint?" he turned to Mercedes and motioned to the boy who'd began to push himself onto his feet, "Why am I even talking to this kid? Why am I humoring him? Jesus Christ, Mercy. And where the fuck is Quinn? No where to be found, AS USUAL!"

The bell rang again and heavy, rushed footsteps thudded against the polished floor. Mercedes looked up in time to catch a much older looking version of the young boy running in with his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw clenched. His chest angrily heaved beneath his black Under Armour shell, and sweat dripped from the dirty blond fringe that fell over his angry green eyes. He took one look at his mini-me's disheveled appearance and rounded on Puck.

"What the hell are you doing to my brother? He's a kid, man! What the fuck's your problem?"

"You think I give a shit about how old your brother is? He's old enough to steal, he's old enough to face the consequences!"

The blond puffed his chest up, threateningly, "You wanna say that again?"

Mercedes quickly wedged herself between them, not wanting Puck to lose his job or possibly his life, fighting with a guy who showed up off the street.

"Stop it! Both of you need to calm the fuck down!" She turned to Puck, "Relax. Breathe."

The towering, mohawked baker shot the blond one final look between clenching his jaw and storming away, slamming the kitchen door behind him.

She then took the opportunity to try and explain the situation to the newcomer, "Look…"

"Sam," he filled in.

"Sam, your brother stole from us. All we wanted him to do was give the shit he stole back."

"It was just muffins," the younger boy murmured, his tone sounding much smaller and more juvenile than it had a mere minutes before. "Not even a lot, see, Sammy?" He shoved his hand in his pocket and dropped three from his grasp.

The older blond kept his eyes locked on the kitchen door for a moment before dropping his intense line of vision to meet hers, "So you sic your guard dog on him to get what you want? Is that how you deal with kids? You couldn't just let him off with a warning."

"I would've if he hadn't run out when I confronted him. It wasn't even worth stealing-"

"So just let it go! He's a kid, he doesn't know better."

Mercedes furrowed her dark brows, and cut her eyes at him, "If you don't tell him that he's wrong he'll never learn. He'll just keep doing it and getting away with it."

"It's just some fucking muffins, Jesus! You want him to pay for it? Here," he pulled money from the pockets of his sweat pants and threw five one dollar bills at her feet, "Take your fucking money!"

Mercedes kicked the money away from her, and sized him up, not taking her eyes away from his, "It's not about the money! It's about the fact that he stole and you just want me to be a-ok with it! This could be a learning opportunity and you just wanna let him get away with it!"

A condescending laugh escaped from his lips, "Newsflash, darlin', you're not a teacher. You're a barista at a shit cafe, working for minimum wage and crying over a damn muffin. You're not in the position to teach me or anybody anything."

She raised her brows and took a step back, "You talk a lot of shit for someone who only carries crumpled up ones and is perfectly fine with stealing food, Sammy."

He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Something flashed in his eyes before he turned on his heels and stalked towards the door, "Come on, Stevie…Now!"

The younger of the two shot Mercedes one final look and followed his brother out. Through the tinted glass, she could see Sam shove his brother in front of him and whisper something into his ear.

She picked the crumpled ones up from the floor, smoothed them out, and walked behind the counter to tuck them into Puck's jacket pocket.

"Over muffins. Seriously."


	2. oo2

Sam sat at the edge of the Olympic sized pool, peering deep into the familiar blue abyss as if searching for the answers to the universe. Droplets of water rolled down his reddened cheeks and dripped from his chin, disrupting his reflection with a parade of ripples. Shades of purple colored the his lower lids, and his shaggy hair sat just under his eyebrows, clinging to his skin. He'd given up on trying to keep his fringe out of his face. He'd given up on quite a bit in the last few months. He found no real reason to care anymore.

Sam Evans was broke.

The Evans family was broke.

Really broke.

And it was taking a toll on every aspect of their lives. The fact became even more evident when he returned home with his younger brother from the cafe. She'd never really been much of a disciplinarian to begin with, as she relied on Dwight to do most of the parental duties. Perhaps, if it'd been any other day, Mary Evans would've given Stevie a stern talking to and a very lenient three-day punishment. But on that day in particular, the 5'2 ticking time bomb exploded in a torrential downpour of expletives and the threat of violence.

"Do you know the day I've had? Do you?" Mary screeched between clenched teeth, "I had to get your clothes at _Macy's_. I had to shop at MACY'S! And do you know how I got there?"

She laughed maniacally and threw a Metrocard down on the glass coffee table separating herself from her youngest son. Sam silently counted his blessings for the position of the table, as he had no true desire to stop her from strangling Stevie. At least not today.

"We do not steal, Steven Michael Evans," Mary warned, pointing a well manicured finger in the thirteen year old's scarlet, freckled face, "I give you everything I can, so there is no reason for you to act like a petty criminal. God! I'm - you - it's…Why?! Why are you stealing? Why? What could possibly be out there that you don't already have in the house?"

Stevie's bottom lip quivered as he stared at his mother with wide eyes. And his mouth opened but all that came out was an airy sigh. He looked over at Sam for help, but Sam merely shrugged.

"Don't look at him! Use your words! There's a reason we pay for you to go to private school!" Mary's slight southern accent slipped and she caught herself. "Talk. To. Me."

"Shelly said that I could get muffins from Holliday's…'cause her brother's the baker. A-and…I dunno. I was hungry. I only had money for coffee. I'm sorry, mama. Honest!"

Mary tapped her emerald green nails against her slim, tanned thigh and then ran her fingers through her dirty blonde hair.

"Honey," she began, "We don't steal from people. If you can't afford something, you don't just take it from others. We raised you better than that."

Sam noticed something flash over Stevie's face for a moment, and his eyebrows furrowed.

"So it's only okay when dad does it, then?" He responded bitterly.

Sam decided that it was time to intervene when he noticed his mother's shoulders tense up.

He couldn't remember exactly how he ended up back on campus, sitting by the pool, reevaluating his life. All was quiet aside from the echo of the water rushing through the filters, and the occasional sound of voices from the audience seating area. The feel of water on his skin felt more like home than the large apartment he was used to. Even when Dwight Evans actually made appearances, there was always a sense of detachment, despite living there for five years. The feeling increased every time they were forced to sell their belongings to pay off bills and the rising debt. But the this was Sam's constant. No matter what new town the Evans were forced to move to, he was always able to find a place to swim and take his mind off of the shitstorm that was his life. He let out a slow, steady sigh and felt the incredible need to punch something. Either that or smoke. He sucked his teeth when he remembered that he had to quit for the team. He wanted to kick himself for making a big show of tossing his carton in the trash in front of the team.

$10.50 in the trash. $10.50 that was probably sitting in some landfill…or maybe a compactor. $10.50 that could've been in his jacket pocket, promising quick relief for the growing headache he brought onto himself.

He spent the last 5 minutes of his shower staring down the drain, wondering what the fuck his life had become in the last 6 months. He contemplated shaving the growing brown stubble from his cheeks, but muttered a low "fuck it" and quickly dressed himself in the NYU hoodie and sweatpants he randomly pulled from his closet on the way out of his apartment. His temple panged once more when he remembered that he'd eventually have to sell some of his shit, too. He slammed his locker shut and rested his forehead against the cool metal. Dark green eyes slowly drifted close and he took a deep, slow breath.

"Hey, you alright?"

Sam jumped back, nearly sliding on the damp locker room floor. He gripped the top of the lockers for balance and glared at the newcomer. Familiarity washed over him, but his eyebrows remained furrowed.

"Don't fucking do that."

Kurt Hummel raised his hands up, "Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I just…you weren't in the weight room, so I thought you went home. The girls swim team said they saw you in here before they got in so…" he drifted off and dropped his hands to his sides.

Sam's eyes flickered to the clock above the front door and groaned when he realized that he'd missed his training session. It was unprofessional of him, and he knew Coach Beiste would have his head on a spear. He could already hear her threatening verbrato in the back of his mind, and he twitched.

"I didn't realize it was past 4, Kurt. I'm sorry. I just had a thing. Family drama, y'know?"

"Wow. That really sucks, Sam. Wanna talk about it?"

There it was. The thing he hated the most: pity. He was never one to pity others. And the last thing Sam Evans needed was the pity of someone else. He fought the intense desire to pull a face of complete dissatisfaction, and he reeled it back in.

"I…I'd rather not." He licked his chapped lips and shoved his calloused hands in his pockets. Only one other person genuinely knew about his home situation. As much as he would've loved to tell Kurt, who he'd grown quite fond of in their brief time as jogging buddies, he still wasn't exactly sure if it was a smart decision. The freshman had the tendency to gossip, and Sam still wanted to hold on to as much dignity as he could before it was time to come clean. The Evans family had a reputation, one that plenty knew of thanks to his parents and their desire to be ostentatious.

As far as the public knew, his father was on a long trip in Germany, and the missing furniture was sitting in the basement of some church his mother made up on the spot. He changed the subject, "I'll make it up to you, alright? Somehow."

"Actually," the brunet's blue eyes lit up and he rocked on the heels of his Converses, "you could get me a cup of coffee and call a spade a spade. I'd toss in a nice scone, but I like you so I'll keep it simple."

The corner of Sam's mouth involuntarily quirked into a small smile, the first in a while, "Sure thing, Hummel."

Sam stared down the pitch black sign, and memories of earlier that day came in at rapid speed like war flashbacks. His right eye twitched.

"I'm not going in there."

Kurt rolled his eyes and pushed the tinted door open, "You can't back out now, Evans. You promised-"

"No, no, no," the blond waved his hands out in front of him, "it's not about the coffee. Can't you get your drink someplace else? Like…I dunno…Starbucks? McDonald's?"

The younger boy crossed his arms over his chest, "This coffee is cheaper and better quality…" he proceeded to eye Sam, curiously, "Why don't you wanna go in? Are you banned or something?"

He uncharacteristically fidgeted with the sleeves of his hoodie, "No. I just…there was a thing with my brother. And it's a- uh- little awkward-"

Kurt released the door and rounded behind Sam, pushing him forward, "If it was your brother, you have nothing to worry about. Stop being a baby. Man up and get me my coffee like you promised."

Sam had no shame in having to be dragged in kicking and screaming. All he could think about was the girl at the counter with the deep, fiery brown eyes, who made him feel the tiniest amount of remorse for something he didn't even do. It was a feat even his parents couldn't accomplish. And the fact that she could caused him extreme discomfort. The moment his feet crossed the threshold, his eyes immediately searched the modestly packed room for her. A dark haired Latina stood at her spot behind the counter, texting and popping her gum. Behind her, a blonde scurried back and forth, decorating the iced latte in her hand with various syrups and sprinkles.

Even as he approached the cash register, the barista never bothered to look up from her phone.

"What?" She addressed him, dismissively. Sam cut his eyes at her and rested his hands on the counter.

"Are you speaking to me? Because…"

Her eyes quickly shifted to meet his gaze, and she popped her bubble gum. "Do you want something or not, blondie? Cause, right now, I'm not in the mood for your bullshit."

The other barista handed her latte to a customer, "Remember what Miss Fabray said, 'Tana."

The slender Latina groaned and dropped her phone in her pocket. "You can call her Quinn. She's only a year older than us," she mumbled.

A wide, fake smile appeared on her face. She crossed her hands in front of her. "So!" She continued, but this time in an overly enthusiastic voice that made Sam cringe, "How can I help you today, kind sir?"

The corners of his mouth pulled into a grin. His knuckles rapped against the polished wood, "What do ya have a hankerin' for, Kurt?"

No response.

He spun around to find Kurt a few yards away, having an animated conversation with someone seated at a table.

"Hummel!" He called, "What do you want?"

Kurt spun around at the sound of his name, and Sam immediately felt dark brown, judgy eyes on him. Her judgy eyes that continued judging him even hours later. In a panic he spun around, tripping over his own feet in the process, and pulled his hoodie over his head. As if being 6 feet tall in expensive sports gear was something that could easily go unnoticed in a cafe filled with seated hipsters.

He slapped a five dollar bill on the counter, avoiding eye contact with the barista, "Lemme- uh- get a…a- um…medium coffee with…um…cream and three sugars?"

"Right away, sir," the brunette responded, with the air of mockery in her tone. He wouldn't entertain it. He just wanted to get the coffee and leave. He already knew he was shit outta luck. But a part of him hoped that maybe he wasn't spotted. Maybe, he thought, she believed he was someone else.

The click of heels behind him and the tapping on his shoulder confirmed that he wasn't as inconspicuous as he hoped.

Of course he wasn't. Because why would Sam Evans' life be that forgiving?

"Why are you hiding?"

Sam slowly turned to address the tiny, yet terrifying barista that he'd met earlier that day. He could admit that she looked different in her street clothes with her curls framing her adorably round face. Had they not had an intense first meet up, he would've taken the opportunity to compliment her on the way her black jeans fit her hips. But he feared that saying the wrong thing would result in another scolding. Something she already seemed prepared to do with her arms crossed over her chest, and her lips slightly pursed.

"I'm not hiding," he lied, pushing his hoodie from his forehead, "I was just…covering my head from the cold. It's- I just got out the shower. And, y'know, cold air. Gets people sick, y'know? Can't get sick, y'know?"

She raised her brows and tilted her head downward. More judging.

"I believe you," she said, grinning, "Can't have Aquaman getting sick. Then who'll bring pride to the NYU community? Hm?"

For someone he'd just met, she already knew quite a bit about him. Granted, his name got around, so it was a possibility she'd just heard about him through the grapevine. A small part of him wondered if she'd asked around. She didn't seem like the type.

Kurt appeared behind her, perfectly amused with the situation at hand.

"Wait…Mercedes…You guys know each other? Seriously?" His hands were clasped under his chin and he bounced on his toes excitedly.

Mercedes. The name suited her. He noticed her look him up in down, and he shoved his hands back in his pockets, suddenly very hyper aware of how shabby he looked.

"Vaguely," she finally admitted, keeping her eyes trained on him. "I know his name's Sam. I know he's the local rich boy. I know his brother likes to steal."

Kurt let out a dramatic gasp and his eyes widened, "That was Stevie?"

"He said he was sorry," Sam defended tiredly, "And he returned your stuff."

"You're right. And I accepted his apology," she replied with a shrug. She sauntered past him -allowing the soft scent of lavender and vanilla to waft by- and leaned against the counter, "So how long have you been dating Kurt?"

The question hit him like a ton of bricks and he was almost sure that he hadn't heard her correctly.

"Excuse me?" Sam questioned, thoroughly confused. What exactly had Kurt been telling her about him? Not that he genuinely cared. But the spreading of false info was serious shit.

He took no offense. Rather, he'd always seen Kurt as a younger brother. He told him as much. So the question threw him for a serious loop.

"No! No, not him!" Kurt screeched waving his arms between them, earning a hearty laugh from his best friend and only furthering Sam's confusion.

She nodded in Sam's direction, "But I thought you said-"

"Not. Him. Someone else," Kurt had taken on somewhat of a defensive tone. This had been the first time he'd heard anything about Kurt dating anyone. But he summed it up to their relationship being new. The fact that Mercedes didn't even know seemed to be something of a shock to her.

Sam's eyes shifted from Kurt to Mercedes, then finally back to Kurt, "We're just friends. We jog together." To lighten the mood, he ruffled Kurt's hair, "He's a looker and all. But not my type."

A small, gracious smile appeared on Kurt's face as he swiped Sam's hand away and changed the subject, "Um…So what's your type then? Never really seen you with anyone."

"Yeah, Sam, what is your type?" Mercedes inquired. She tucked her plump lower lip between her teeth, and Sam tried his hardest not to admire the way her cupid's bow dipped into an almost perfect 'u' shape.

His thoughts, thankfully, were interrupted by the barista announcing that the coffee was ready. The blond released a sigh of relief that he didn't realize he was holding.

"Sorry, I gotta go," he managed to respond once Kurt distracted himself with his drink. Pointing to his watch, he began to walk backwards towards the exit, "I promised my mom I'd help her do some chores. You know how it is."

Mercedes nodded slowly, smirking knowingly, "I know how it is. See you around, Sam."

He felt the familiar stir in the pit of his stomach when she lightly dragged out the 'S' in his name.

"You too…Mercedes." He allowed her name to linger on his mouth for a little while longer. "Kurt, see you tomorrow."

Kurt waved him off and muttered something to Mercedes, who shot him a knowing look before rolling her eyes and turning away to talk to the Latina behind the counter.

On the way out, Sam grabbed an application by the door and tucked it away in his pocket.


	3. oo3

Quinn's index finger twitched over the shutter in hesitation, and she lowered the camera from her eyes to get a better view of her surroundings. Judging by the rays of sunlight receding behind the skyline, she guessed that it had to be at least a quarter to six. The temperature dipped with every gust of wind, causing autumn chill to nip at her legging clad thighs. Her expensive leather boots toed a torn up red leaf stuck to the glistening, rain drenched concrete, and she realized how quiet the area was once people emptied the park to escape the weather. Tucking a glossed lower lip between her teeth, she raised her camera back up to her face.

Quinn lived in the city her entire life, but never actually took the time to see it for what it was. Nothing truly ever just existed. And it hit her in the oddest of ways that every little bit of architecture was built with bare hands, muscle, dedication, and sweat. And the arch itself, something she passed everyday but never really paid attention to— she wondered how the original artist would feel about it. She couldn't imagine thinking something up, drawing it out, having it built and then…what? People 'ooh' and 'aah' at it for the first couple of decades. Eventually, it just becomes apart of the area, blending into a sea of neutral colored bricks and stone. And, occasionally, it being subject to an asshole wanting to play daredevil by somehow finding his way to the top, looking down for a photograph of everything but the arch itself.

Her finger hesitated, then added pressure to the shutter.

_Exitus Acta Probat_

_"The End Justifies the Deed"_

Quinn's cell phone vibrated in her pocket for the second time in five minutes. The unique rhythm of the pulsation told her exactly who it was, and she swallowed back the sigh on her lips. Rather than having to sit through another tongue lashing from her aunt, Quinn stood to her feet and dragged her feet towards the exit. It'd never been in her best interest to avoid responsibility, but it was something she'd grown used to in the past few weeks. The tiny bottle of Adderall burned a hole in her pocket, and she fought the urge to reach for it. Quinn was running low much faster than usual, as she'd been prone to taking doses in a higher frequency than she was supposed to. As a result, the crash that followed between doses felt all the more like a crushing blow that anyone within 5 feet of her could sense.

She was in no mood to fake energy. She had no energy to fake energy.

Within a block of the cafe, Quinn removed her camera from around her neck and rested her backpack on her hip to slip it back into its case. It was nearly knocked out of her grasp when she collided into someone with a tree-like build. Or rather, the person bulldozed into her as they had far more in terms of size on her.

All it took was a shock of dirty blonde hair, and she felt her eyes nearly roll towards the back of her head.

"Watch where you're going, Evans," Quinn mumbled after successfully securing her favorite toy, "You nearly broke my shit and we both know you can't afford to replace it."

He wordlessly responded with the flip of a finger, and further ignored her presence as he stalked down the block in the opposite direction. He was clearly too distracted for the banter she was used to, but she brushed it off as nothing more than catching him at a bad time. Considering the drama surrounding his family, based on what she heard through the grapevine, the junior's entire life could be classified as a "bad time." Had her own life been completely free of bullshit, she probably would've found a fuck to give.

But she was fresh out.

The swell of chatter filled her ears the moment she pushed open the black tinted door and was smacked in the face with cool air. The employees stood around the counter; some in uniform, others in street clothes. Two of them stood on the customer side, leaning forward as if listening to a secret that another two were sharing. There was a fifth person in the mix, but she couldn't identify him as an employee.

"Excuse me?" she began, approaching the group. She heard the sucking of teeth and the soft groans, but she made no effort to try and figure out who the reactions belonged to. She'd grown used to it in her short time as manager. The five of them stood up straight and quickly dispersed. They'd been talking about her. "Um…why is the A.C. on?"

Santana Lopez, one of the employees who'd taken a swift dislike to Quinn the minute she took her position, drummed her fingernails against the polished wood, "Well, everyone was complaining that it gets too stuffy."

"The heater," Brittany Pierce pointed to the ceiling and nodded her head, allowing her curly blonde ponytail to bop with the motion, "it's a little too intense. They decided it was better to just have cool air, but not too cold. Does that make sense?"

It was then that Quinn noticed the customers still clad in their outdoor gear, minus hats and scarves. Her dark eyebrows furrowed in mild confusion.

"How long as it been like this? Why didn't you guys tell me?"

"A few weeks. But you woulda known yourself if you actually made an effort to show up," Santana added with a tilt of the head.

She deserved that. Of course she'd never let Santana know that.

Had she known about the condition of the heating system, she would've told Holly to have it fixed. Of course, it was natural for her aunt to have little idea of what was going on in her own cafe. She visited whenever she was in New York, which was for a few weeks out of the year in the summer. So of course she wouldn't know.

"Just be lucky you still have your job with all the consumer complaints I've gotten about you," Quinn responded calmly, "Just because I'm busy doesn't mean I'm not aware, Santana."

"You talk mighty big for someone who earned her spot with no real work," Santana replied with a shrug of the shoulders.

She could take a lot of shit. She was used to the casual relationship, because of her close proximity to their ages. She expected it, and she'd learn to brush it off as long as they did what they were supposed to.

But one thing that Quinn would not tolerate was being called lazy. Her mind flashed to the countless nights doing figures for the cafe's bills, making sure that the proper companies delivered their things on time, and paying for everything on the strict budget that Holly allowed.

The blonde rested her hands on her hips and stepped closer to the counter, sizing the Latina up. She spoke in a low tone, not wanting to cause a scene, "One thing you will not do while in my presence, is disrespect me. I can always find someone else to take your spot. Do you understand me when I say that you can be gone in a heartbeat?"

Santana tucked her lips between her teeth but rolled her eyes, which was her way of accepting the truth for what it was without verbally acknowledging it. Quinn's line of vision shifted over to the blonde at Santana's side who fidgeted with a cleaning cloth awkwardly to avoid eye contact.

Running her fingers through her hair, Quinn brushed past them both in an eager attempt to kill the bubble of frustration that she felt building in the pit of her stomach. Once she was in the safe space of her office, she shut the door behind her, and slid into her computer chair. Her hazel eyes gazed at a fixed spot on the ceiling where the mint green paint had a quarter sized chip in it. Yet another thing she had to fix before it turned into another ordeal.

Another number to call. More money to spend.

"Fuck," she sighed as her eyes drifted close. She tried her best to drown out the murmur of conversation beyond the door. She didn't hate her job. Not at first. In the beginning, her routine was set in even hours. She was able to easily dedicate the efficient amount of time to her duties. But when school hours began to overlap into work, and work began to overlap into social hours, she scrambled to balance it out. She couldn't pinpoint when exactly she began using the drugs to get work done. Quinn could just remember the feeling of comfort in the idea that she wasn't completely useless in her inability to juggle things like everybody else.

The door opened, then closed again.

The feeling of kisses peppering her cheeks and nose brought a small smile to her lips.

"You're going to get me fired one day," she whispered. She found herself gazing into a pair of bright russet eyes, filled to the brim with concern for her.

"You might end up getting yourself fired with all of these disappearing acts you do," the brunette whispered against Quinn's cheek, "but either way, you're smart, you'd find a job someplace else."

The blonde pursed her lips at the hint of a lecture in her tone and Mercedes giggled. Her lips immediately spread into a bright smile and she scrunched her adorable button nose, "I'm not gonna get you fired."

Quinn matched her nose scrunch with one of her own, "Oh yeah? Then where do they think you are right now?"

Mercedes pretended to ponder the question for a moment as she sat on the desk in front of her, "Maybe I'm taking a cigarette break."

"You don't smoke."

Mercedes shrugged and leaned in close, pressing her forehead to Quinn's and placing a small kiss on the tip of her nose, "They don't know that."

"How do you know that exactly?"

"I just do."

"I think they'd know if you smoked, 'Cedes," Quinn countered.

Mercedes leaned back and rested her hands on the desk, behind her. She quirked an eyebrow, "Do you want me to be here or not?"

"No need for the sauciness, Miss Jones," Quinn chuckled, "I'm just saying, there are some holes in your logic."

Mercedes cut her wide brown eyes and scowled at her, "You just overthink everything. I doubt anyone really cares about where I am right now. You have to know that."

There was a brief silence as Mercedes fidgeted with the sharpies on Quinn's desk. The blonde rested her hands in Mercedes' lap, and tapped a steady rhythm with her fingers against her thick thighs.

"What's on your mind?" Mercedes questioned, not taking her attention away from the markers. Quinn opened her mouth to speak, but decided against it and licked her lips.

"What do you think?"

Mercedes' small fingers walked up Quinn's arm before reaching up to push a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Goosebumps rose at the feeling of her delicate hands brushing the shell of her ear, and the younger girl made a point to skim her fingertips along the sliver of exposed skin on her shoulder, before gently sweeping her collarbone and resting her hand back into her own lap.

"I'm not sure why you feel like its your duty to play the role of Miss America in your day to day routine" she muttered, meeting Quinn's eyes once more, "You should try being a teensy bit selfish sometimes. It does wonders for your psyche, babe. I mean, it's a little hard at first. But eventually it gets easier to take some time off for yourself and no one else."

"You sound like Holly."

"Look at her life," Mercedes smirked, caressing Quinn's cheeks, "I think she has a bit of an idea of what she's talking about. Maybe you should follow suit."

It was easy for Mercedes to make that assumption when she didn't know how Holly was viewed from her family's perspective. Having dropped out of college to become famous for being famous, Judy Fabray's younger sister's name was frequently met with a tired sigh when said in the presence of other adults within the family. It'd been years since Holly made an appearance at a family fathering, long before Quinn was old enough to know what "disinheritance" meant. Sure, Holly may have been fortunate enough to build an empire of sorts on her own after that "slight road block," as she called it. But at what cost? If everything came crashing down, what exactly did Holly have to rely on? Her family shunned her, and her friends were flaky at best.

Quinn never wanted to be in that position.

"I don't know," Quinn finally replied.

Mercedes dropped her hands from Quinn's face and pursed her lips in deep thought. Picking a black sharpie from the desk, she removed the cap with her teeth and began writing in Quinn's right hand with slow, looped strokes. Quinn fought the smile pulling at her lips.

"What are you even—"

Mercedes shushed her and continued on with her task. Her eyes were slightly squinted in concentration, and the blonde used her free hand to brush the dark curls away from the girl's vision. When she was finished drawing on her hand, she leaned forward and pressed her scarlet painted lips to the heel of Quinn's hand. She allowed her lips to linger along her skin for a beat longer before pulling away and curling Quinn's hand into a loose fist.

"Don't look at it until I leave."

Mercedes used her thumb to wipe the lipstick residue from Quinn's flushed cheek and offered her a small smile before hopping down from the desk and making her way to the door. With one hand on the knob she hesitated, and then turned to face the blonde with a question visible on her features.

"Hey, Fabray. What do you think of Sam Evans?"

Quinn was taken aback by how out of left field the question was. He hadn't come up once in the entire conversation, so she wondered for a moment if the question was in the back of Mercedes' mind the entire time. She was slightly irritated by the thought, but she shook it off.

"He's alright, I guess," Quinn responded honestly, "A bit of a cocky asshole about 80% of the time. The other 20%, he's usually laid back. My family kinda knows his family…why?"

The corner of Mercedes' mouth twitched.

"No reason. He just stopped by here and there was an incident earlier—"

Curious, Quinn leaned forward at her desk, "What incident? What happened?"

"Don't worry about it," Mercedes waved it off, "It was handled. Puck handled it."

Quinn felt her face cringe at the mention of his name, but she immediately pushed the memory away from her. Apparently, it wasn't fast enough. Mercedes shook her head and opened the door.

"You two need to get over your problems. Jesus."

The minute the door shut behind her. Quinn leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes again. She contemplated taking a quick nap in the office, and wondered if she could get away with it.

She opened her right hand to read the looped, slanted cursive pressed into her skin beside the cherry red lipstick stain:

_Respirez, ma chérie._


	4. oo4

Sam walked around the neighborhood with his head held higher than it'd been as of late. Granted, his life hadn't improved by much. In fact, it'd grown slightly worse though his mother refused to admit as much. The Evans clan could no longer afford the family chef that prepared their morning and afternoon meals. He knew the time was coming, when the quality of the meals began decreasing little by little as the weeks went by. Eventually, the meals would come just once a day as opposed to the usual two. Mary Evans decided to let Francisco go and - though it was far more unhealthy - let Sam and Stevie receive their lunch and breakfast from outside like everyone else. That is, if there wasn't any time for the standard cereal and milk during the week.

It was easier for Stevie to adjust to the change, as he'd been using his gradually decreasing allowance to buy lunch since school started a month earlier. He explained that no one in 8th grade brought lunch to school, and that their parents let them go off campus to eat. He resorted to giving his lunch away and eating outside like everyone else. Knowing that hiring Francisco's services cost over $500 a week, Sam felt a twinge of irritation at his brother's antics. One less meal for the chef to cook would've cut the cost down a considerable amount.

But what would a thirteen year old know about the value of a dollar? And it wasn't like Mary ever instilled the importance of conscious spending to his younger brother. Why would she, as she'd only learned about it within the last 6 months? But the point was moot. The chef was gone. Back to Italy...or maybe the Bronx. Wherever it was that chefs went.

For Sam, the loss was a bit more difficult to cope with. He was used to specific regimens and meal plans to keep him in top shape for the swim team. Now that he was on his own, he came to the somewhat embarrassing conclusion that he wasn't as independent as he believed himself to be. In fact, he heavily relied on others to accomplish his tasks for him. Looking at the people he surrounded himself with, he knew that he was possibly the least mature of the group. The others were 21 and younger, living on their own and learning how to survive on a fixed amount of money. He was still living with his mom who would do anything he didn't want to at the drop of a hat. Not that it was uncommon for people his age to live with a parent. But shit. He was in the same position he was in at sixteen, and the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

But that was all going to change after tonight, because for the first time in his life, Sam had a job interview. Sure, it was at Holliday's, and though they paid slightly better than the other coffee shops in the area due to their selective nature in hiring practices, it was hardly the most well paying place in the city. He figured that every little bit helped. And it was sure as fuck a step up from doing nothing.

In the North lounge of the student center, Sam watched as Mercedes Jones stretched on pointed toes to tack a bright yellow flyer onto a corkboard. Her dark curls sat gathered atop her head in a neat bundle, and his eyes trailed down to her leather jacket clad torso before resting on the form fitting blue jeans that stretched around her hips and ass. Self conscious that she may have caught him staring at her (mixed with the slight shame of being leery, something he never did), he returned his gaze back to her face. He noted her furrowed brows as she stuck a tongue out and tried to pull an old thumbtack from the board to make room for the new one. He heard her grown in frustration when the tack slipped from her fingers. As amusing as it'd been to watch her scowl like an angry kitten, he pushed himself to his feet to make an attempt at helping her. He wasn't even entirely sure she'd accept his help, as she had the air of stubbornness about her. For whatever reason, he felt inclined.

For a brief moment, as he crossed the room, he wondered how she viewed him. He wasn't exactly willing to ask, as they barely knew one another and he rarely gave a shit about what people thought of him.

Bullshit. He mentally corrected himself.

He cared. Even a little. Pride was a powerful thing. But he had to let people think that he didn't give a fuck. Because the absence of a fuck somehow made people give a fuck. Then it clicked.

Was he drawn to Mercedes because she didn't give a fuck about his lack of fucks? And did he give a fuck because she didn't give a fuck about his lack of fucks? He gave a fuck. And suddenly it mattered whether or not she gave a fuck. But he couldn't pinpoint why. He just wanted her to give a fuck.

"Hey," he called to her, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans, "Need any help?"

The tiny brunette made no effort to face him, but he could see from the small rise in her cheek bones that she was grinning.

"I feel like I'm gonna have to get a restraining order soon," she replied, "Once is a coincidence, twice is suspicious- _god damn it_." She hissed when the thumbtack slipped from her fingers once again. He reached over her head and plucked it from the cork board, to which she huffed softly and brushed her bangs from her forehead.

"Thanks," she mumbled.

"Don't mention it."

There was a brief silence between them, and in that time he took the moment to see what exactly it was that she was passing around. Something about a poetry slam.

"What's that?" He asked. He could've read for himself, but any excuse to have her say something that wasn't injected with sarcasm was one he was willing to make. After successfully securing the neon green page to the board, she turned and handed a fresh one to him.

"Holliday's is having their weekly poetry competition this Saturday. It has a pretty good turnout, but this time we've got a monetary grand prize. Someone donated some money. We don't know who. Holly won't tell us. But it's pretty damn big," her voice hitched a slight octave, exposing her excitement. Charmed by her enthusiasm, he felt the corner of his mouth quirk involuntarily,

"Will you be performing?"

Her smile faltered slightly before she decided that the stack of papers in her hand were far more interesting than the conversation.

"I'm not a poet. That's not my thing," she licked her lips, and Sam's eyes caught the action.

"I dunno, you always gave me a very artsy vibe," Sam replied. And it was true. Even the way she spoke, when she wasn't being rude to him, had a slight melody to it.

"I'm a painter," she passed a flyer to a passing student and continued to fidget with the papers, as if the conversation hit an uncomfortable point, "So that's probably what you're referring to. I guess."

There was another awkward pause, this time broken by Mercedes.

"But, you know, Kurt will be there. He's pretty good at poetry. I know you guys are friends. Maybe you can go for support." She shrugged dismissively at the suggestion, which only made him smile a little wider.

"You know, if you really want me to go you can just ask me."

She shot him a look of pure confusion and then her lips parted. A small giggle escaped.

"Sam Evans..." she shook her head, "look, if you want to go, go. If not, don't. But you'll be missing out. And it'd make Kurt really happy if you did."

He was unaware if she was telling the truth or playing a game with him. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part. But she seemed like the type to play mind games.

He leaned against the wall and shot her a winning smile, "_But_, would it make you happy, too?"

"I don't care either way," she shrugged dismissively, again, before turning on her heels and walking away, "If you decide to go, _for Kurt_, I'll see you there."

Sam refused to let her have the last word again. This was becoming a frequent thing, and it was both amusing and a minor irritation.

"One of these days," he called to her retreating form, "you're gonna stop being rude to me!"

Spinning around, she walked backwards towards the exit. From where he stood, he could see her eyes glinting evilly, and he tucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I'll stop being rude when you stop enjoying it."


	5. oo5

"So, Mercedes," the middle aged black woman pushed her wire rimmed glasses onto her nose, and leaned back in her chair, "how has your week been so far?"

The brunette really just wanted to lie down on the brown plush leather couch and take a much needed nap. The gentle hum of the heater beside her harmonized with the ticking clock across the room, threatening to lull her into a deep sleep. She allowed her eyes to travel from wall to wall, taking in the various degrees and copies of famous abstract paintings perched behind Dr. Flemming's neatly organized chestnut desk.

The first time Mercedes visited her therapist, the entire setting felt incredibly forced. The deep blue "calming" paint on the walls, the assortment of degrees from universities and colleges both known and unknown to her, the box of kleenex sitting on the edge of the desk; it was all there to give the illusion of a safe space. But Mercedes was forever a skeptic. Especially when the woman in front of her, as nice as she was, probably wouldn't give two shits about what she had to say if she weren't being paid by the hour. She imagined that most people got into the counseling business because of what it was...a business. People in this day in age had issues. She supposed that it made sense for people to profit off of it. She understood it for the same reason why she understood the personal trainer profession and those who decide to go into medicine.

It didn't apply to everyone. But enough people were more than willing to profit off of other people's problems. Why not? It was pretty smart.

She could never do it. But she understood it.

Mercedes fidgeted with a loose string on her leather jacket stitching, and shrugged, "It was alright. I mean...it's only Wednesday. So..." She drifted off and dropped her hands into her lap.

"How about your sleeping schedule? Have you been able to sleep through the night alright?"

She avoided eye contact, and decided to instead keep her eyes trained on the black carpet below her boots. She ran her toe along the fabric slowly, and listened to the soft sound of rubber against rough cloth.

"Sort of," she finally confessed, "I keep waking up at 4 AM involuntarily. I don't know why."

Dr. Flemming let out a small 'hmph' and scribbled something down onto her digital notepad. Mercedes hated that. It made her feel like a lab study and not a person. Her previous therapist would do the same thing, with the only difference being that she would simply keep asking 'how does it make you feel?' and scribbling whatever Mercedes responded with. Eventually, Mercedes would make up bullshit and tell the therapist, because she caught on that the young woman wasn't actually listening to what she had to say. And the psychiatrist before that would try to convince Mercedes that she was feeling one way to make whatever hypothesis he formed in his head correct. Being eighteen at the time, Mercedes didn't know how dangerous misdiagnosis was until the psychiatrist had her convinced that she may have bipolar disorder, and tried to prescribe medication for it. Three years later, Mercedes became well aware of malpractice, and developed and intense mistrust of people in the medical field.

This therapist in particular was recommended by the school counselor just a month prior, but that didn't stop Mercedes from keeping her at arms length, no matter how pleasant she turned out to be. The tall, slender woman across the room waited patiently for every response, regardless of how brief and closed off. She took this moment in particular to adjust the elaborate updo of gray locs that sat delicately atop her head. She had to be no older than fifty-five. But, simply based on the smoothness of her dark skin, she was the type of fifty that looked like a healthy forty if the gray hair didn't give her away.

"Is there any reason why you wake up so early. Do you have nightmares or do you have insomnia...?"

"I don't have nightmares," Mercedes replied, "Not lately. I think I've just been really busy. And too tired to have any dreams. At least not ones that I can remember. But I guess if I had nightmares I'd remember."

Dr. Flemming nodded her understanding and leaned forward, "Can you tell me about the last nightmare you had? If you want to. If it's too much, you don't have to."

She hesitated for a moment, before licking her lips and trying to think. "I-um...I remember popping noises and flashes of light. And screaming. Someone calling my name and then my name being cut short midway through..." She could remember running through wet grass, but not running fast enough and not really going anywhere. And the footsteps behind her grew closer each time.

"My brother," she finally said, voice cracking slightly, "my older brother was there. I couldn't really see him. I never can. I just kinda felt him. His presence. I always do, especially when it's late."

Mercedes could hear the creak of the rolling chair as the older woman changed positions in her seat. She heard the fluttering of pages. Back and forth, back and forth, searching for something.

"Your brother...Troy. Was that his name?" The doctor questioned, gently.

Mercedes nodded, pushing a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. She felt the familiar pang in her chest, but she rooted herself to her spot, not wanting to leave the room. It would only mean that she'd carry her heaviness with her.

"What about your parents. Have you heard from them?"

She shook her head, "No. They don't-I'm not really-they don't talk to me. I don't answer. I don't know what to say, I guess. They know I'm well, because I send them a text every week. But we don't talk. I can't. Not now."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

"Okay," she flipped more pages, and cleared her throat, searching for another topic of conversation. Possibly a lighter one to clear the room of the dark cloud that entered at the mention of her parents. The ruffling of paper stopped and she leaned back in her chair again.

"So Quinn Fabray..."

The back of Mercedes' head hit the arm of the leather couch with a dull thud, "Oh God. What about her?"

Dr. Flemming chuckled to herself and rested her chin in her hand, "You two seem to have a complicated relationship. I have some notes here about you two based on what you've told your past counselors and...it's a lot-"

"Yeah well, she and I have our issues." Mercedes interjected, tiredly, "I mean, I love her. I probably always will. But we're not good at the whole dating thing."

"Why not."

Mercedes sat upright and latched her teeth onto her lower lip in thought. "Quinn is just as..._off_...as me. But instead of owning it, she puts up a front. I love her, but I hate _that_. I hate faking what everyone can see through. I mean, what's the point? Those of us that are her friends know the truth. And I guess being upfront isn't easy. But at least she can be upfront with me. And she never really is. I have to force it out of her. I have my own problems, I can't really spend my time forcing other people to be open with me. Especially when I'm open with them without much effort."

Dr. Flemming hummed and twirled her pen, "But you girls still talk to each other?"

"Yes."

"And you hang out?"

"She's my boss. I see her every day, just about."

She raised an eyebrow. And in that one action, Mercedes could see every judgmental thought cross her features.

"That doesn't make things complicated for you? How can you two mend anything when you don't have space from one another?"

If Mercedes was being honest with herself, she was sure they'd become each others safety blankets. It was hard to move on. At least it was at first. But now Mercedes was beginning to find her way, though she wasn't entirely sure if Quinn was on the same page. She was so brave and determined to be what everyone wanted, but when she was vulnerable, she was very vulnerable. And Mercedes had no qualms dropping everything to be there for her. Though that decision was a highly flawed one.

Mercedes swallowed and slumped down in the couch, "I don't know. Carefully?"

More flipping of pages, and the hint of a hidden smile crossed Dr. Flemming's face despite her bowed head.

"You're just not going to give me any leeway, huh?" She responded, somewhat playfully.

The brunette shrugged and crossed her leather-clad arms over her chest. In her defense, she was more open in this session than she'd been in the previous one. She mentally pat herself on the back for showing an ounce of "progress."

"Speaking of relationships," the therapist began, "Any new ones on the horizon?"

"No."

"Really? Not even someone you're talking to?"

Mercedes raised both brows in mild amusement, "Do you know something I don't, doctor? Did someone cc a love letter for me to you?"

The woman laughed and shook her head, "No, Miss Jones. I'm just curious."

She eyed her incredulously. Who really cared about the love lives of twenty one year olds? Therapists were supposed to care about tragedy and ailments. She sighed heavily, "Well...I just met this one guy. He's cute, I guess. Kind of an idiot."

"Oh really? How do you guys know each other? What's his name?"

"So you can go stalking around for notes?" A snort escaped and she leaned back against the couch, "No thanks. Here, in this room, his name is Bob. Bob Smith. And it's nothing serious. He's just someone I keep running into. And I guess we flirt sometimes. He's friends with Kurt, I just met him through extremely odd circumstances. We haven't really hung out like that." Mercedes fidgeted with her fingers, "We talk. But it's casual, and I like casual these days. It's easier."

Dr. Flemming glanced up at the ceiling and pursed her lips in thought, "You're right. Casual is good, especially when you're trying to figure things out for yourself. But don't convince yourself that you're not worthy of substantial relationships. You deserve them just like anyone else. If that's what you want. You never have to go at it alone."

"I have friends," Mercedes mumbled, "I'm not alone."

"Friends are good. But there's nothing wrong with allowing yourself to feel love in different ways...you know?" Dr. Flemming glanced at the clock on the adjacent wall and stood from her chair. Smoothing down the front of her pencil skirt, she offered Mercedes a small smile, "It seems we're out of time. But I'm impressed with how open you've been this evening. Maybe next week we can move a little bit further. It's all up to you of course."

Mercedes forced herself off of her comfortable position on the couch with a low groan, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, "I guess."

She noticed the older woman frown slightly, then she chuckled, "Same time next week?"

"Sure."


	6. oo6

"What are you doing here?"

Sam stood at the threshold of the Evans apartment, with fists clenched at his sides. The shit-eating grin that formed on Dwight Evans' face slowly disappeared, and worry lines creased his forehead. His extended arms dropped in disappointment.

"I can't see my oldest boy?" He asked, "You know, I miss the days when you were excited to see me walk through those doors. You've gotten cynical in your old age, eh, Rocky?"

Sam said nothing but stared straight ahead at the white wall over his father's shoulder. Dropping his bag at his feet, he released a slow stream of breath.

"Get out."

The man before him raised thick, brown brows and slipped his hands into the pockets of his well pressed suit pants. Sam caught the glimmer of something on his wrist; He assumed it was a new set of cuff links or a watch. Something unnecessary. Dwight's green eyes roamed the room, taking in the lack of furniture and the ghost of expensive paintings on every wall. He took a step forward and his polished dress shoes clicked along the hardwood panels.

"I'll be on my way in a few," he replied absentmindedly, "You know, I do like what your mother's done with the place." He spun on his heels facing the once carpeted hallway leading out of the living room and leading to the bedrooms, "I never took her as much of a minimalist but you know what they say about creativity breeding from necessity."

Sam rolled his eyes, tiredly, and tucked his lips between his teeth. Brushing past Dwight, Sam felt his father make an attempt to grab at his wrist. He snatched it violently out of his grasp and stormed into the main hallway.

"Mom?" He called, circling the hallway once before returning to the living room. He heard the quick shuffling of feet and the fluttering of papers. "Ma!"

Mary Evans emerged from her room with folders and various papers clutched in her hands. The purple bags under her tired brown eyes told Sam that she received very little sleep the night before, and he felt the pang of concern in his chest. Brushing tangled bangs from her eyes, she pushed her reading glasses onto her nose.

"Sammy..." she whispered. Her eyes flickered from Sam to his father over his shoulder, "What are you doing home?"

Sam quirked a brow, "What am I doing here?" He thumbed the man behind him, "What the hell is he doing here? You let him in?"

Mary's mouth opened and then closed as she tried to find the right words.

"You didn't tell him?" Dwight cut in.

"It's not...It's hard to say," Mary struggled to croak, her eyes shifting wildly between the two men in front of her. "I didn't have the chance. You have to understand-"

"Will someone just tell me what's going on?" Sam leaned back against the nearest white wall. The question was directed to both of his parents, but he kept his eyes trained on his mother, who was the only one he trusted to give him a straight answer under pressure. "I'm twenty-one, not ten. Stop hiding things from me."

He watched his parents exchange a look, then Mary bit her lip.

"Sammy...Sam," she swallowed hard, "It's about Steven. I-he..." her voice cracked and she fidgeted with the papers in her hand.

"What?" the blond asked, the panic evident in his voice. He turned to his father, "What happened to Stevie?"

"Nothing, he's safe. He's alright it's just that-"

"Sammy, he's leaving." Mary finally spat out.

Sam furrowed his brows, struggling to understand. She blinked and allowed a tear to drop from her light brown lash and roll down her reddened cheek.

"He's moving in with your father."

She continued on but her voice sounded distant, as if she whispered through a mile long tunnel. Her lips moved rapidly, and her face continued to turn a deeper shade of red.

"Why?" Sam asked. He could barely recognize his own voice as it hitched an octave from anxiety.

"Your father asked for primary custody."

Sam blinked, allowing the information to sink in. His fingers twitched involuntarily, but he refused to look at his father who silently tried to initiate eye contact. Sam wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"When has he ever given a crap about us? Ma, you know he doesn't. You know that's why he left. He wants nothing to do with us and you know it."

He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You know that's not true," Dwight replied, to which Sam scoffed and roughly shoved the hand off of him. He felt the tension behind his eyes that matched the throbbing in his now closed fist.

"So it's not enough to take our money...mom's livelihood and means of supporting us," Sam asked, forcing himself not to look at the man he'd grown to loathe in the past few months, "No, that's not enough. You have to split us up, too? "

"Sam Evans!" Mary exclaimed with wide eyes.

"No, ma! This is crap!" Sam paced back and forth with his hands clenched in his hair, "It's crap and you know it! How can you let him do this? You know Stevie hates him!"

"Sam," Mary's voice cracked pitifully, "I have to. I need all the help I can get. And Stevie would be able to live a lot more comfortably in Texas than he would here. Not when..." she drifted off and ran a hand down her face, allowing it to rest on her cheek.

"Then I'll help." Sam suggested, desperately, "I just got a job. I can help you. We don't need him."

"Sam," Dwight looked between his soon-to-be ex wife and his oldest son. His voice took on a slightly threatening edge, "it's already done, you can't stop it. You should just let it go-"

"You don't get to have a say!" Sam shouted at his father, slowing his pacing to a stop, "You left! You decided that you didn't want to be here, so you don't get to have an opinion here anymore, you piece of shit! You decided to ditch us and live it up with the fake family you made up with that whore you left us for!"

Without so much as a warning, Sam was pinned to the wall behind him with a forearm pressed to his throat, cutting off his oxygen. His father breathed heavily through his nostrils, and Sam could see anger flaring behind the green eyes that mirrored his own. No matter how much pain his was in, Sam refused to look away. Mary screamed at her husband to let their son go, and shoved at him uselessly, well aware that he was much taller and much stronger than she was.

"Listen to me, you spoiled little shit." Dwight whispered, "You don't get to talk to me whichever way you want. I'm not going to let you disrespect me. Grow up and get the fuck over it."

He added more pressure to Sam's throat for emphasis, then let go, allowing Sam to collapse onto the floor gasping for air. Stars clouded his vision, but he could hear Mary screaming at his father and telling him to leave, with which he was all too happy to comply. The pain in Sam's neck and the back of his head from being slammed into the wall followed shortly after, and he tried to blink back the angry tears prickling his eyelids.

"Sammy," his mother whispered in concern. When she reached out and touched his shoulder, he jerked away and scrambled to his feet.

"Sam!"

Without another word, he grabbed his duffelbag, and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Mercedes listened from a short distance away as Kurt whispered cryptically into his cell phone. She heard him pace back and forth in the living area; his words streamed together in a rapid blur; Per the usual, but with an added sense of urgency. The slow, steady strokes of Mercedes' paintbrush ceased completely as she tried harder to listen in. He turned just in time for her to see his neatly shaped brows furrow in what appeared to be concern.

"Okay...alright. It's alright. No, I get it. I'll be here." Kurt hung up and slowly turned to Mercedes with his hands clasped under his chin. It was then when Mercedes knew that whatever her roommate was about to ask would probably result in her spending precious time, and/or money, doing something he knew she wouldn't want to. She sat her paintbrush down in anticipation for his new venture.

"Okay," she sighed, "what is it?"

"Sooo," he rocked on his heels, "a friend of mine is going through some stuff at home. And he really needs a place to stay"

Mercedes glanced at the clock. It was a little after nine. She knew that there was another shoe. There always was.

"Alright?" Mercedes responded slowly, "And who is this 'friend'?"

The thin brunet hesitated, then began to fidget with his hands, "Sam..."

And there was the other shoe.

"Sam who?"

"How long is he staying here?"

"I don't know, 'Cedes. Probably overnight, that's all. But look at him. He looks miserable."

Mercedes forced herself to acknowledge the brooding mass of wealth and angst sitting on the secondhand black leather couch, staring intensely at a spot on the wall. She didn't even want to think about what made him so upset that he felt the need to travel all the way to Brooklyn at ten o' clock at night. But it didn't negate the fact that Sam turned up out of the blue uninvited with a dufflebag in hand and a deep scowl on his face. The scowl temporarily transformed into a mild shock when Mercedes opened the door to greet him.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, furrowing his brows in confusion. Mercedes scoffed and shot Kurt a look over her shoulder. Kurt responded with a bashful smile.

"Remember, Sam? Mercedes is my roommate?"

"No. I think I'd remember that," The blond admitted. Mercedes rolled her eyes at her roommate and returned her attention to their guest, "I mean, if you're uncomfortable, I can go."

Mercedes took a step back and motioned for him to come inside. This wasn't without a quick glare at Kurt and a "come hither" motion with her finger once the door was securely closed and locked.

"I understand that Sam is your friend, Kurt," she explained in their two person huddle, "but you can't just bring random people into our house without asking. I thought we went over this."

The freshman chewed on the corner of his mouth and fidgeted with his fingers, "I thought you would get pissed off. I know that you two aren't exactly...close."

With one more look at Sam, Mercedes rested her hands on her hips.

"Am I mad, now?"

"Mildly annoyed, yes."

"Am I currently throwing a drink in your face or threatening to flip you over a banister?"

Kurt shot her a toothy grin, "I wouldn't put it past you."

Mercedes reached up and gently shoved him, "You're lucky I love you, kiddo, or you'd be out on the street in a cardboard box."

Pulling out of the huddle, Mercedes went through the action of collecting her art supplies to make space for the pull out couch. Pushing her easel to the corner of the room, she turned and pointed at Sam with a paintbrush.

"By the way," she added, "He's your problem. I have work in the AM, and I can't be Doctor Phil with tonight."

"I don't need a baby sitter," Sam countered, glaring at her, "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk about me like I'm not here." Realizing that his hands were clenched, Mercedes watched him release them and rest his hands in his lap.

"Relax, Bruce Banner, I wasn't-"

"Look, don't tell me to relax. I know that you aren't 100% okay with me being here and I said I'd go if you wanted me to. You don't have to make these snippy comments to or about me like I'm a nuisance. I can go!"

Mercedes crossed the room and stood in front of him with her hands resting on her hips. Staring him down, she spoke slowly and calmly.

"I don't have any issues with you being here...clearly," Mercedes motioned to the space around her, "If I did, you'd be out by now. So stop yelling at me like you didn't choose to come here. Okay? Because I can always change my mind."

There was a heavy silence and Kurt cleared his throat.

"Maybe it wasn't a good idea-"

"No, Kurt. It's fine. It's not your fault." Sam responded, dropping his head in his hands "It's me. Mercedes, it's not you. I didn't mean to take it out on you. I apologize. Thank you for allowing me to stay here last minute." He raised his head to meet her gaze and she believed his tone of sincerity, "Really. Thank you. You didn't have to."

Mercedes hesitated a beat and turned on her heels, "I'm going to bed. Or something. See you two in the morning, maybe." Before closing her her bedroom door, she poked her head out again.

"And Kurt, good luck with...whatever this is."


End file.
